There are genuinely exquisite poems as well. Laura Kasischke's "Blizzard at the Chelsea Fair," with its mix of humorous narrative and conflicted maternal emotions, will likely become a standard anthology piece. "Village without a River" is a successfully ambitious long sequence about Chelsea by coeditor Smith. But I am particularly attracted to the little poems that try to capture small moments. The book ends with one by Chelsea's David Sing, a deceptively simple poem that subtly echoes a famous poem by William Carlos Williams. The title, "There Are No Poems Here," appearing where it does in the book, can only be ironic:
| There is a mower, wet with rain |
Against a stand of red cedar.
In the maple, a nuthatch
Walks up the tree and pokes suet.
I think it will be a long winter.
On the hill, the children
Yell and run and fall
Sounds echo from the willow
Which is here, as well
Raining yellow daggers
Across the green lawn.